


The Adventure Of The Amateur Mendicant Society

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [26]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Attempted Murder, Begging, F/M, Inheritance, London, M/M, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 08:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15092750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Doctor Watson sees a new side to London and the way it operates, and an unwise aristocrat makes one poor decision too many – which given London and the way it operates, will be his last ever mistake.





	The Adventure Of The Amateur Mendicant Society

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Draconius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draconius/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

The year of 'Eighty-Seven brought many changes to the life of Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D. In the summer (and after much effort) he secured the publication of _A Study In Scarlet_ , the first of my brother Sherlock's adventures to be released to the Nation. It was a time of great stress for him, not just in the writing of the story but in my brother's initial coolness towards his efforts and in the health of Mrs. Constance Watson who had never fully recovered from her recent illness. 

This was to be a fruitful year in at least one aspect as it has provided some eight 'new' cases for the Nation, the first of which introduced an English city doctor to one of the stranger sides of Old London Town, and an English aristocrat to the consequences of what happened when one did not 'take the hint'.

Kean has somehow gotten his hand inside my trousers and is taking rather more than just the hint oh Lord right there!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

This curious little adventure, which introduced me to a lady to be feared like almost no other in our great metropolis, concerned advice of two types. First, of the sort that I was always giving out to my patients (and which sometimes was even heeded!). My wife's return from her stay in the country had left her feeling refreshed, but I still watched anxiously for any change in her health, and I suspected that she was quite relieved to 'advise' me to go and see Holmes for a while if it stopped me fussing over her too much. And second, the sort of advice given to a person in this case which, fatally for him, he chose not to take. He was to pay for his stupidity with his life.

'Eighty-Seven was one of my friend's busiest years, and it was with much regret that I was able to later share but two of his fascinating investigations from it with the Nation. I wrote up those that could not be published of course; Holmes had explained to me that in many instances it might be possible to release what had happened later when it could no longer hurt those who did not deserve to be hurt, hence I spent much of the year writing in between fretting over my poor wife's health. Maybe one day cases like the one I am about to narrate will also see the light of day.

It was still January, and still freezing. I had called on Holmes for a chat and we were discussing the latest news when a card was brought up, announcing that he had a visitor. He very courteously asked me to stay, and moments later there was admitted a besuited man in his sixties, portly of figure and a little out of breath. 

“I am in urgent need of your services, Mr. Holmes”, he said, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. “It is quite literally a matter of life and death. Time is of the essence. We cannot.....”

Holmes chose that moment to present him with a large whisky which temporarily stilled the flow of words.

“Watson and I think it is always best if our cases start at the beginning”, he said firmly. “Calm yourself sir, and then tell us why a lawyer has decided to travel all the way from the English Midlands to see us, and also why you came straight here from the station rather than seeking refreshment after your long journey.”

The man stared at him in astonishment.

“How did you know that?” he gasped at last. “Am I being followed?”

Holmes chuckled.

“Your clothes indicate that you have undergone a journey of some length, therefore a railway carriage is implicated”, he said. “First-class, as second-class seats tend to leave small pieces of fluff on their users' clothes. There is a faint black mark on one of your boots, which is typical of the ticket-office foot-rail that for some inexplicable reason the London and North Western Railway Company uses as a deterrent to its passengers, but the fine soot on your other boot is indicative of a journey on the Great Western Railway as only they use the Welsh coal that could have generated it. These two companies largely intersect in the English Midlands; a change of trains is therefore indicated and the fact you did not stop to get your expensive boots cleaned shows that you were in a hurry.”

“But how did you know that I am a lawyer?” the man asked.

“There is excessive wear on the area above your right coat pocket”, Holmes explained. “It is my experience that lawyers tend to place documents there on a short-term basis.”

“I see”, he said, calming down a little. “You are quite correct sir, and I see that the reports I have had of your talents were not overstated. I am hoping you can employ them to possibly save a young man's life.”

“Kindly tell us everything you can”, Holmes smiled, “and we shall see what we can do.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“I am Mr. Peter Farmington”, our visitor began, “and I live in the Worcestershire town of Stourport-on-Severn, some little distance south-west of Birmingham. I am still employed by Cartwright and Farmington's, a highly reputable firm of solicitors in the town of Stourbridge. I am officially retired but my years of service have gifted me with some of our most important clients, whom I continue to serve as some of them do not like change. And none are more important than the de Braoses of Bewdley, a few miles north of my home town.”

“Lord Harold de Braose himself was one of my clients. He was seventy-four and, until recently, in good health for his age. He had had three sons but all had predeceased him; the second son however, Lord Samuel, had married and had had two sons of his own, Sulien and Æthelbald.” He caught my expression and smiled. “Sulien was the name of the first de Braose to own land in Bewdley, doctor, around the time of Henry the First, whilst Æthelbald was his Saxon steward.” 

I nodded. I quite like old names starting with the Saxon 'ash'.

“Just under a year ago”, the lawyer went on, “there was a falling-out between Lord Harold and his elder grandson and heir, Sulien. I do not of course know what it was about but Sulien, a good fellow if somewhat hot-tempered when crossed, left the house vowing never to return. He was barely twenty-one at the time and his brother almost exactly a year younger. I have obtained information to the effect that Sulien came to London where he subsequently became a mendicant.”

I bit back a smile at the lawyerly term for beggar.

“In all fairness I have to state that my personal preference is against Mr. Æthelbald”, the lawyer said. “I consider that he played the dutiful relation to his grandfather, but although I abhor gossip I often heard talk that he behaved very differently when he thought that he was not being watched. There was also a regrettable incident some years back when he attacked a visitor to the house one time for reasons I know not. The servants inevitably gossiped and he was sent off to boarding school soon after, his victim being transferred to one of the family's Scottish estates, at his own request I was told. I was also informed by more than one of the late Lord Harold's servants that Mr. Æthelbald had been applying pressure on his grandfather to fully disinherit his elder brother. They said that their master remained hopeful of a reconciliation up to the end but sadly it did not happen.”

“How did Lord Harold die?” I asked. The lawyer seemed to hesitate. 

“You must understand that as a lawyer I abhor speculation and uncertainty”, he said slowly. “Lord Harold died from a fall down the stairs. Mrs. Fortnum, the housekeeper, admitted to me – off the record - that she suspected his younger grandson may have had a hand in that fall. Of course there is no proof of that assertion.”

“You wish me to investigate that murder?” Holmes asked. The lawyer shook his head.

“It is young Sulien for whom I fear now”, he said. “Assuming that he is still alive then he is the only thing that stands between his brother and the estate. I would not put it past Mr. Æthelbald to hunt his brother down and remove the last obstacle between himself and all that wealth. The death of a mendicant on the streets of London would I fear hardly draw much attention.”

“So we have the added pressure of time”, Holmes said. “We must go straight to the top. I presume that you return to Worcestershire today, sir?”

“Yes, sir”, the lawyer said, handing over a card, “but a telegram will reach me either at work or at home. I wish you Godspeed in your endeavours.”

“Thank you”, Holmes smiled.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Sherlock had mentioned before about his brother Mycroft, whom he had said worked for the government in some small capacity. I did not then know just what but I wondered if we would be headed to Whitehall to see him. I was therefore a little surprised when our cab kept to the north side of the city and eventually pulled up outside a small and rather dirty flower shop on the edge of the East End. It was nothing special, and that was putting it kindly. 

“This is 'the top'?” I asked dubiously. It definitely looked more like 'the bottom'!

Holmes smiled at my befuddlement and led me inside. Two elderly ladies were there, both dressed in plain work-clothes and working on some arrangements. To my surprise Holmes approached the elder of the two and bowed deeply.

“Your majesty”, he said, to my surprise if not shock. She looked at him shrewdly.

“You had both better come through the back”, she said. Her companion raised the counter for us and the first lady led the way out.

The back room was very different from what I had expected. This was a Victorian lady's reception room, and the flower-seller looked almost absurdly out of place as she poured out tea for us all. She smiled at me as she handed me my cup.

“You always were one for keeping secrets, Mr. Holmes”, she said reprovingly, but there was a warmth to her tone that belied her words. “Even from those you drag through your adventures, however willingly.”

He turned to me.

“Watson”, he said, “this is Mrs. Margaret Ball, known to those who need to know as 'Queen Molly'.”

I looked at her in astonishment before I got it.

“Of course!” I said. “Queen of the Beggars!”

“Mendicants, doctor”, she said, shaking the sugar-tongs at me in disapproval. I blushed and lowered my eyes.

“If there is anyone who can help us with our quest, it is this lady”, Holmes said.

She looked at him.

“Both you are your friend are known to be more than generous to my subjects”, she said. “You have a request to ask of me?”

Holmes nodded.

“Around this time last year, a young man called Sulien de Braose came to London”, he said. “The family lawyer fears that his life may now be in danger, and believes that he currently practices a life of mendicancy. If so, it was my hope that you might be able to find him.”

“A year ago”, she said heavily. “Hmm. I seem to recall how a certain famous detective sometimes makes pointed remarks that a trail has gone cold long before _he_ is called in? And that he frequently makes great play of the fact as to how that makes things infinitely more difficult for him?”

I tried not to snigger at my friend's words being bowled back at him but I failed dismally. Holmes actually blushed.

“All that is known is that he arrived at either Paddington or Euston”, he said, “and that it may have taken some time for his money to run out. His father was a rich man and passed on yesterday. There is speculation that the mendicant's younger brother was implicated in that passing and that he may be seeking to eliminate his brother as well so that he can inherit all. I have been asked to investigate as a matter of urgency.”

She nodded.

“I can make some inquiries”, she said, “but you would do well to talk to Lord Joseph. He is of course as much a real lord as I am a real queen, but he is head of the Amateur Mendicant Society.”

“The what?” I asked, puzzled.

“Mendicancy is not left to chance, doctor”, she explained. “It is all highly organized so that the maximum amount can be raised from the philanthropic public, your good self included, and then distributed to those in need. If this young man did fall to the streets, then he would have been swiftly adopted by Lord Joseph's organization and trained to do things properly before joining mine. By having such a system we are able to support those like this boy who are just starting out, and possibly even help them back into society.”

“I am sure that if we can find this boy”, Holmes said, “he would always remember those who stood by him in his hour of need.”

The lady took a card and wrote something on it before passing it over to Holmes. 

“Go to that address and be sure to hand the card to the clerk”, she said. “Do not be surprised if they snatch it off you; they are naturally wary of authority. The signature will prove that I trust you.”

“Thank you, ma'am”, Holmes said.

He stood up and bowed again, and I did likewise. He placed an envelope on the table that clearly contained several notes, and the 'queen' smiled at him.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“I did not expect to be seeing royalty today!” I remarked, as our cab made its was towards St. Pancras and the address 'the queen' had given us. 

“Molly is head of all the beggars in London”, Holmes explained. “Indeed, if only our government were better ordered then matters might not be in such a mess as they currently are!”

“So what part does the Amateur Mendicant Society play in all this?” I asked curiously.

“It is as she said the training system for beggars, to allow them to maximize their appeal when plying their trade”, Holmes said. “Facial sores, verbal patter, location, the right clothing – it all combines to make the difference between a good day and a bad one, between food and no food. Molly takes a cut from everyone who begs in the capital, but she is more iron-clad than a battleship when it comes to redistributing it to those who in need; beggars starting out, families of those who pass on and so forth. Two years ago one of her subordinates tried to put away some funds for his own use.”

“What happened?” I asked.

Our cab juddered to a halt, and I saw we had reached our destination. Holmes looked at me meaningfully.

“The man was dragged off the bottom of the Thames that same evening”, he said flatly.

Oh. _That_ sort of 'queen'.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

We drew up outside a funeral parlour which had “Woodward & Sons Ltd.” in barely discernible gold lettering across the front. Having entered, Holmes handed over the card that he had been given to the man who came to greet us. He looked at us uncertainly then curtly told us not to move or touch anything before disappearing out the back.

“What does he expect us to do?” I grumbled. “Run off with a coffin?”

Holmes smiled, and more quickly than I had expected the man came back. His attitude was very different now and we were bowed through to a small office with the name 'Joseph Woodward' emblazoned on the door. Our guide ushered us in then all but fled.

Mr. Joseph Woodward looked every bit the funeral director. He was about fifty years of age, a gaunt man dressed all in black and wearing what was far too obviously a hair-piece. I tried not to stare but it took an effort. That was _bad!_

He looked at us expectantly.

“Anyone who can persuade Molly to part with one of her gold cards must be someone”, he said sharply. “And I've heard about you myself, Mr. Holmes. What brings you down to the world of mendicancy?”

Holmes explained our search for Sulien de Braose, and I noted immediately that upon his mentioning the man's name our host's face fell.

“There was an attack on that young man only this afternoon”, he said. “A 'gentleman' tried to stab him. Fortunately the boy was out training with old Ben, who had his whistle on him. When a copper came running up the attacker fled.”

“How is he?” I asked.

“He was taken to hospital”, Lord Joseph said. “I told Ben to stay with him just in case. Attacks on mendicants are rare, but some people see us as an easy target. Molly always deals with them in the end, though.”

To my surprise Holmes seemed to hesitate. He and our host looked at each other as if communicating in some strange silent tongue. Eventually Lord Joseph shook his head.

“I would like until midnight”, Holmes said. “Please. If it does not go as I hope, then of course....”

“I see”, Lord Joseph said, pulling at his short beard. “Very well. Because Molly stands for you, the Society shall give you that time, Mr. Holmes. But only until midnight mind!”

Holmes stood and bowed.

“Thank you, sir”, he said, before ushering me out.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“What was all that about?” I asked once we were outside.

“I will tell you later when we are back in Baker Street”, he said. I was a little annoyed but said nothing. 

Holmes stopped at a post office on the way home, presumably to send a telegram, and I was glad when we finally made it to our rooms where I immediately set to starting the fire. It was a cold winter's day and I was freezing. Holmes went down to see Mrs. Hudson about something; a couple of minutes later I thought that I heard two people coming up the stairs, but when he came into the room he was alone.

“All marches well?” I ventured. I knew better than to ask for details that he would have offered anyway if he had wanted. He nodded. 

“A visitor is due here within the hour”, he said. “I doubt willingly, but he will not chance that I can prove something against him without confirming it for himself.”

I nodded and handed him a drink. We both sat down to wait.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“Mr. Æthelbald de Braose.”

Mrs. Hudson announced our guest and withdrew. The man she left behind was anaemic-looking, tall and flaxen-haired with a pinched face. Even without knowing what I did about him I disliked him on sight.

“Please take a seat, my lord”, Holmes said politely, gesturing to my chair. I silently ground my teeth, but did not object.

“Not 'my lord', Mr. Holmes”, the man said with a false smile. “My wayward elder brother holds that title.”

Holmes looked surprised. 

“I am sorry”, he said, looking genuinely bewildered. “I was made to believe that the hospital had informed you. They said they had sent an urgent telegram to your City house.”

“A telegram about what?” he asked.

“We are sorry to have to tell you this”, Holmes said gravely, “but your brother was attacked whilst begging in the vicinity of Euston Station this afternoon. One of the wounds hit a major artery. He died a little over an hour after reaching the hospital.”

He stared at us both suspiciously.

“And how do you know all this?” he demanded.

“Your family lawyer asked me to help track your brother down”, Holmes said. “Unfortunately by the time we found the hospital that he had been taken to, he was already dead.”

Our unwelcome guest was very clearly hard put to hide a smile. 

“So Farmington did come and see you”, he said, pursing his lips. “Fool said he might. Pity you weren't a bit quicker.”

Holmes swivelled on his chair and looked hard at our visitor.

“Three things, Mr. de Braose”, he said coldly. “Firstly, your brother was able to provide a very accurate description of his attacker to the police. Right down to his eye colour and the emblem on the red tie that he was wearing.”

Our visitor shifted uneasily in his seat, and pulled his jacket closer around him as if to hide the red tie around his neck.

“The rambling words of a dying man”, he said dismissively. “You are not implying, I hope, that _I_ am in any way involved in this matter, Mr. Holmes? I would remind you that this country does have laws concerning slander.”

“Those laws only apply if the allegation is untrue”, Holmes countered. “Rather more serious, sir, is the second matter. Doctor, please bring me our visitor's coat.”

I was surprised but fetched the coat from the stand and brought it across. Holmes did not immediately take it from me but took a pair of tweezers from the nearby table and pulled a long red thread off of the collar, before placing it in a bag.

“When he was attacked, your brother was wearing a scarf kindly supplied to him by the Amateur Mendicant Society”, he said. “Red, with purple and blue thread running through it. Like this thread.”

“The incoherent words of a dying man and a piece of thread”, our visitor scoffed, though I could see that he had gone even paler. “I thought that you were supposed to be a great detective, Mr. Holmes. Is this the best you can do?”

“There is the third thing, sir”, Holmes said. “We know one more fact about Mr. Sulien's assailant, and it is somewhat interesting.”

“And that is?”

“He had recently washed with a bar of lavender soap”, Holmes said. “In his effort to get away, Mr. Sulien pushed at his assailant's face. It turned out that your older brother was mildly allergic to lavender oil, because there was a rash on his hand when he arrived at the hospital.”

“So?” our guest snapped. “That does not mean anything.”

“Why did you come to London?” Holmes asked.

“To look up some of Sulien's old school friends and see if they had heard from him. Look Mr, Holmes, I have had about enough of these insinuations against my character. Unless you have some actual evidence I am going back to Worcestershire.”

“Actually there is just one more thing”, Holmes said, standing up and walking over to the door to his room. “But I am probably not the best person to ask it.”

He opened the door. There was a bedraggled figure standing in the doorway, a huge wound in his neck that was dripping....

Our visitor fainted.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“I still think that it was a little bit mean”, I said, as we sat round a roaring fire. The rain was hurtling down outside as if it was trying to force a way through the pavement, but inside it was pleasantly warm. Inspector Lestrade had gone off with a still unconscious Æthelbald de Braose who had had to be carried to the police carriage by his two constables. 

Our guest smiled at both of us. Mr. Sulien de Braose, rid of his fake blood, in a proper suit and looking every inch the English lord. He still looked far too thin from all his months on the cold London streets, but he was healthy enough and would soon be back to full fitness.

“It was almost worth being stabbed to see his face!” he smiled. “He looked like the End Times were about to come upon him!”

Holmes looked at him.

“You know they would have done anyway?” he asked.

Sulien nodded.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“When we spoke with Lord Joseph earlier”, he said, “what I asked him for was _time_. As you might imagine the Amateur Mendicant Society does not take kindly to people attacking its members. Had Mr. Æthelbald de Braose not been taken to the safety of the police station, they would have caught up with him a few moments after midnight. Of the two beggars who were watching the house from over by the watchmaker's, one left immediately that Lestrade took his prisoner in. I am certain that the good Lord Joseph knows already that justice is being done and has reported such to his queen. And I have made sure it will be communicated to Mr. Æthelbald that any attempt to evade the full force of the law will lead to his meeting a very quick end!”

“An evil man”, I said.

“He was all but certain that he had gotten away with his crime”, Holmes said. “My only regret is that I cannot prove that he murdered your grandfather, sir, though I dare say that the Worcestershire constabulary will be taking a renewed interest in the matter.”

“You will be returning home?” I asked our guest. He smiled.

“Only for a while”, he said. “The estate is large and unprofitable, and the town council wants to buy some of the land to build houses on, which would make living in the house quite intolerable. No, I shall sell up, buy a place in London, invest the money and then do what I can for my fellow mendicants. I know that some of them would not choose to be helped, but some are like me, needing that push to get back into the world that passes them by every day. And Uncle Joe can make sure that the money goes to the right people.”

“A good ending all round”, I smiled.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

It was not, as events transpired, a good ending for Mr. Æthelbald de Braose, who shunned the good advice sent to him from Holmes and employed a lawyer who was sharp enough to obtain for him only a light sentence. The Worcestershire Constabulary were unable to prove the murder of his grandfather against him, and the killer was a free man after only two years in jail.

His body was found in the Thames less than twelve hours after his release from jail. When I read about it I thought at once of a Victorian lady shaking her sugar tongs disapprovingly at me from across the table, and shuddered.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
